


This is Where It Gets Me

by Lil_Lycanthropy



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Blood, Gay, M/M, Major Character Injury, Somewhat Historically Accurate, Spoiler Alert - Freeform, i did a shit ton of research, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-02-28 17:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13276701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lil_Lycanthropy/pseuds/Lil_Lycanthropy
Summary: A simple scouting mission goes wrong when the squad is ambushed by Redcoats and John Laurens is shot. Will he survive the journey, or succumb to his wounds?





	1. Ambush

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm back with a Hamilton fic! After this, I shall likely work mostly on my [Sanders Sides AU](http://archiveofourown.org/series/865248l), but I hope y'all enjoy this!

It had been almost two days since John Laurens, Hercules Mulligan, the Marquis de Lafayette, and Alexander Hamilton had set off on a scouting mission for General Washington. They were to inspect slightly beyond the borders of the camp the army had set up in the past few weeks. The days had been filled with friendly banter and high spirits as the group finally had a respite from the constant demands of the war. The only trouble they had found was a small fox foaming at the mouth and eating a dead rabbit, but the horses had galloped away quickly enough.

The fires of the camp had just become in view over the horizon when all hell broke loose.

The boom and echoes of a musket shot through the air, and Hamilton was thrown from the saddle of his horse as the shell bore a hole through its chest. He saw Hercules go down beside him in a similar manner, before he himself fell face-first into the dirt. Recovering quickly as he could, he stood up and pulled out his sword.

Laurens had jumped off his horse as it bolted away, and the two stood back to back, facing the enemy. A swarm of redcoats rushed at them, no longer using their guns, relying instead on their swords. As soon as they were close enough in reach, the men engaged, and yells pierced the air. It was complete and utter chaos - bodies toppling over, the clash of swords, battle cries that turned to shrieks of pain, all with the neighing of horses in the background and immediately the adrenaline started taking over. Alex wasn’t worried, though. With John at his back, he knew they would keep each other safe.

They had worked together long enough that the other’s fighting style was ingrained in each other’s head. Lafayette and Hercules were engaged in a similar fashion, slashing and stabbing the redcoats. Isolated gunshots went off, but were quickly lost in the din of the battle. Occasionally, a soldier made contact with one of the four, but adrenaline muted the pain in the all-too-familiar scene of war.

Once there was only a few soldiers left, Alex saw his chance to put a quick end to the fight. A solitary young man raised his musket and shot as Hamilton left John’s back and rushed towards the enemy, but luckily missed his target of Hamilton’s chest. Ignoring the close encounter, Alexander stuck his sword between the man’s ribcage, eliminating the threat. He pulled it back out and saw the remaining three soldiers galloping away on their horses.

Whooping in victory despite the half dozen or so bodies that were strewn on the ground, Alex gave Lafayette a brief handshake and punched Hercules on the shoulder, grinning as he did so and congratulating them on a job well done.

Alex turned back to John, and instantly the smile dropped from his face. Laurens was lying face-first on the ground, a patch of blood steadily expanding from just above his hipbone.

“No, no, no... John!”

Hamilton rushed over, crouching down beside his fallen comrade.

“Okay, okay, shit, you’re gonna be alright...” Alex stuttered, trying to remember what to do. He stripped out of his blue and red coat, balling it up. He turned John over and and pressed the fabric into Laurens’ abdomen. He hissed in pain and squeezed his eyes tight, clutching at the wound.

Noticing Herc and Laf as they surrounded the two of them, he quickly tried to compose himself. He shifted his attention back to Laurens, who was beginning to hyperventilate.

“Hey, hey, try to calm down, you’re going to be fine. I’m going to try to stop the bleeding, okay?”

John didn’t appear to register a single word he was saying, so Alex quickly got to work. Besides putting firm pressure on the wound and trying to reassure John that it was going to be fine, there was not much else they could do. The med kit had been on John’s horse, but the stallion was lost in the woods now. That certainly wouldn’t help.

John was still rapidly losing blood, and his skin had taken on a not-so-lovely grey tint. The sight made the men worried, but they tried not to let it show for John’s sake.

Lafayette took a deep breath, seemingly coming to an internal agreement with himself. “I will ride back to camp and get help,” he said, French accent more evident in times of distress. “I am the fastest rider. I will bring some people that can help. You two; try to keep him, ah, _tranquille_.”

Hercules and Alexander both nodded, and Lafayette quickly saddled up. Both him and his horse — a beautiful bay stallion with a strong chest and a swift gait — took off, sending a rush of air over the three soldiers on the ground.

Despite the perilous odds of Lafayette arriving on time to save John, Alex buried the feelings of hopelessness as they surfaced. Keeping John calm was of utmost importance. If Alex panicked, then John would panic, and his heart rate would speed up, causing him to lose blood even faster —

_Breathe_ , Alex thought, composing himself.

He had to be calm. For himself. For Hercules.

For John.

* * *

 

An hour later, and John’s condition had only worsened. He had been becoming more and more limp in Alex’s arms, and his eyes began to shut. Despite desperate attempts to keep him awake and alert, eventually it was too much for John’s body, and he lost consciousness. While the bleeding had slowed down, John had soaked through both Mulligan’s and Hamilton’s coats. Hercules had suggested he take off his own shirt to help, but with the night getting cooler and none of them having jackets, Alex didn’t want to risk his other friend freezing to death.

John was almost cold to the touch, and hadn’t woken up since he passed out what felt like years ago. The only sign he was still alive were the shallow breaths he took, his consistent trembling, and the rapid pulse underneath Hamilton’s fingertips. 

“Hey, maybe you should let me hold the coats there for a minute. You look like you’re pretty close to passing out yourself,” Herc suddenly spoke, his baritone voice permeating through the eerie silence that had filled the air. 

Hamilton looked over, teeth chattering slightly as the cold began to get to him. The sky was brilliant tonight; the light from the stars shone upon the trio, illuminating their features. Alex could see the worried look on Hercules’ face, hands reaching for Laurens.

“I’m okay,” Alex said, moving John’s body closer to him.

“Let me take him for a bit. You should look after yourself for the moment.”

He had noticed the dull aching in his temple, but had attributed it to the stress of the afternoon. Alex reached up and touched his forehead; pain flashed through his skull and he gasped loudly. His hand came away slightly sticky. _Okay_ , he thought. _That’s fine as long as I don’t touch it._

“Not just your head, Hamilton.”

Alex was confused before he looked down at his body. The sight of blood on his uniform was unsurprising — they had all taken a beating from the battle. Herc himself had developed a blackened eye and a gash across his arm. It seemed Alexander had taken a nasty hit to the torso as well; a patch of blood had dried his shirt to the laceration that spanned across his torso.

Lifting his shirt and breathing sharply at the pain as it peeled away from the cut, Hamilton examined it carefully before deciding it wasn’t worth his attention. While it was wide, it wasn’t deep; the bleeding had already stopped.

“It’s fine, it just looks bad,” he said, trying to put Hercules at ease.

Hercules snorted in derision, but let the matter drop.

Laurens suddenly started trembling violently on the ground, trying to curl in on himself. Hamilton sprang into action, grabbing on to the other man’s arms and keeping him as still as he could. In spite of the fit that was ripping through his body, John still didn’t seem to be completely woken up. His eyes were still crunched shut, and his breathing was ragged. A groan made its way from his throat, and he shook even harder.

John began retching, and Hercules turned him on his side so he wouldn’t choke. A mix of bile and blood suddenly started pouring out of John’s mouth, making a puddle beside his face and filling the air with the smell of half-digested food and stomach acid. 

After another few minutes, the fit subsided. Alex and Herc moved John away from the mess on the ground. Hamilton began rubbing soothing circles along John’s back, trying to calm him down and relax his tense muscles. The seizure had scared him shitless.

Not letting his alarm show, Alex continued trying to calm the other man in his care. He couldn’t let John know how bad it was. He had to stay calm. He just had to have hope.

“Hold on, Laurens. We’ll fix this. I promise.”


	2. The Cavalry Arrives

The ground started shaking as a the thunderous hoofbeats of horses made their way over to the stranded group. Both Herc and Alex turned their heads to the approaching stampede. Within minutes, they could make out Lafayette leading the cavalry, along with some other somewhat familiar faces.

A blur of activity soon unfolded at the scene. Two soldiers and an army medic pressed some cloth to John’s midsection, wrapped a blanket around him, then hefted him up onto a horse. Some of their other comrades helped Hercules and Alexander onto their own steeds, and the whole group rushed back to camp.

Twice on the way, they had to stop as Laurens’ stomach decided to empty itself of its contents, but they continued on soon after, the whole party eager to make it back to camp in order to save John’s life.

Roughly an hour and a half later, they arrived at camp, and Laurens, Mulligan, and Hamilton were ushered inside the medical tent. Several doctors surrounded John, blocking Hamilton’s view of his friend. He tried to stand up from the stool someone had sat him on, but he was quickly pushed back down by a medical aide.

“Please, I need to be there. He’s my friend. Let me see him,” he desperately tried to reason with the friendly face on front of him.

“Let me fix you up first. That wound on your abdomen needs stitches, not to mention the swelling on your head.”

Grumbling to himself, Alex surrendered to the doctor that had showed up. Wincing slightly as they stitched up his belly and placed a bandage over his head, he kept a close eye on the swarm on the other side of the room tending to John.

When the doctor finished up, Alexander leapt to his feet and once again tried to rush over to the other side of the tent. Just before he was about to break through the circle of medical attendants, a large, strong hand gripped his shoulder, effectively stopping him in his tracks. His attempts of shrugging it off were in vain, as the iron grip refused to budge.

Frustrated at yet another person stopping him from getting to his closest friend, Alexander whirled around, teeth bared at the distraction. He only relaxed slightly when he realized it was Hercules. Lafayette was stood behind him, brow furrowed in worry.

Hamilton sighed. “Let me go, Herc. I need to see him. He needs me.”

Hercules and Lafayette shared a glance.

“ _Oui_ , Maybe he does. But right now, you need to rest. Both of you,” Laf said, shooting Hercules’s clearly broken arm a disapproving glare. “You two look like death.”

Mulligan led Hamilton out of the tent, hand firm on his shoulder to ensure he didn’t bolt back to where John was. Grumbling at the childish treatment, Hamilton continued walking, fidgeting uncomfortably.

Eventually, Hercules led him into his tent and left with a quick, “Stay here.”

Flopping down on a stool, Hamilton picked up some paper and a quill and began to write up his report for General Washington. He got two paragraphs down before the shaking in his hands made the letters too warped to read. It’s not as if it would do him any good, anyways—there were too many words in his head, and none of them made sense except for one.

_John._

_John._

_John._

Everything blurred as Hamilton sunk into the icy grips of his panic. It was a place where breathing was optional, where his body shook like a leaf in a hurricane, where his head pounded with every heartbeat, and where his mind was filled with fear. Fear of the unknown, fear for his friend, fear for himself, fear of the past, fear of the future.

He tumbled from the stool onto the ground, biting his knuckle to stifle the sobs that struggled to make themselves known. There was a pressure on his chest and back, tight like a clamp, causing physical pain and restricting his breathing. Alex wanted to scream, to cry, to call for help, to do anything besides lie on the floor, helpless.

Most of all, he wanted to see John.

John didn’t deserve all the shit he was going through. Hamilton couldn’t help but think it was his fault. He had left John’s back, left him alone in the middle of combat without so much as a hastily shouted warning. It was his fault John was in the med tent, doctors trying to save his life, when it was Alexander’s recklessness that landed him there in the first place.

God, I wish it were me instead of him, he thought bitterly to himself.

The panic finally left him, leaving him exhausted, yet trembling with nervous energy. His head was still pounding, pulsing around the injury currently covered with an itchy bandage. Alex stood up, supporting himself on the little wooden stool, and began pacing.

Words left his mouth as he muttered to himself, anger and fear evident in the tone of Hamilton’s voice. His thoughts were all over the place, and even though he couldn’t write at the moment, the words had to get out of his mind.

He hated it when he got like this. _Hated_ it. For someone as intelligent as he, for someone where writing came more naturally than breathing, the fact couldn’t get a damn word down on the paper because of something as trivial as emotions was just humiliating.

Alexander wasn’t heartless—far from it—but sometimes he wished he could just shut off his brain for a little while to give him some peace.

 _You don’t deserve peace_ , a little voice in his mind said. _You got your best friend shot. You saw where the bullet hit. Laurens is not going to survive. If you had done your fucking job of protecting him, he wouldn’t be in this position._

Alexander flinched almost imperceptibly at the voice and collapsed onto his bed. He just wanted everything to stop. Why couldn’t everything just _stop_?

Rubbing at his temples as the pain flared up yet again, he was distracted by the flap of his tent flying open as a uniformed arm yanked on the corner. Alexander welcomed the diversion from his accusatory thoughts.

Lafayette stood at the entrance, face slightly flushed and breathing a little harder than normal.

“Laf? Is everything alright?” The words came out slightly garbled, a stark difference from his usual flowing use of language, betraying just how utterly exhausted Hamilton was. The past few days, especially the last few hours, had drained him of nearly all the energy he had—which, granted, wasn’t that much considering his horrible sleeping habits and tendency to forget that he needed to eat.

Lafayette inhaled quickly, trying to catch his breath, before rapid-fire french poured out of his mouth.

Too tired to comprehend english words meant that the french—usually a comfortable language for him—was completely lost on Alexander. The words just assaulted his senses, leaving him feeling even more self-pitiful. He stared dumbly at the Frenchman, trying to process the words, but they refused to hold any meaning. He sighed when he was getting absolutely nowhere.

“Laf, I can’t understand you right now,” Alexander said, feeling embarrassed and frustrated with his muddled mind.

Lafayette breathed in deeply, a look of concern settling on his face. “ _Mon ami_ , are you alright?”

It was unlike Alexander to ask him to speak in english, as both of them were fluent in french. Sure, there were some differences between the creole dialect and the original French one, but it wasn’t too big of a barrier. Lafayette also noticed how Alexander looked even more sleep-deprived than usual. Overall, he looked, for lack of a better word, _épouvantable_.

Ignoring the worry he had for his friend, Lafayette ran a hand through his curly hair before saying, “They were working on him—Laurens—in the medical tent, and he was, eh, _inconscient_ —sorry, um, unaware? Not awake?”

“Unconscious?”

“ _Oui, merci_ , but then they started trying to do something, _je ne sais quoi_ , and he just sat up right away—”

Alexander leapt to his feet from the bed at those words, eyes frantic. “John is awake?” he asked, voice dripping with hope.

“ _Oui_ , Alexander, but you must understand, he is both physically and... _mentalement instable_ , and he was still bleeding, but he was, uh, _en paniqu_ e, so I ran here to get you. I-I think he would like to see you, _mon ami_.”

It didn’t matter that John was panicking, or in pain, or any number of other things. It didn’t matter that he would probably hate Alexander to the bone for getting him shot. It didn’t matter that Lafayette was probably lying about John wanting to see him. None of that mattered now.

The only thing that mattered to Hamilton was that John was awake.


	3. Treatment

Hamilton burst through the entrance of the tent, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to reach John Laurens. “Where is he?” he panted, out of breath from rushing over. Several other soldiers stared at Alex as he made his way through, trying to pinpoint the location of his wounded friend. The sound of harsh breathing reached his ears from the other side of the tent, and he was completely unprepared for John thrashing about on the surgical table with his shirt off, trying to fight off the medical assistants who were currently attempting to restrain him. If there was one things Laurens knew how to do, it was to fight.

Several people, including one Hercules Mulligan, were holding John down on the bed by his wrists and shoulders as he lashed out with his feet and groaned in a mix of pain, panic, and frustration. Herc was speaking softly to John, trying to reason with him, but apparently getting nowhere in John’s frenzied state. He was relentless when he set his mind to something.

“Don’t _fucking_ touch me!” John screamed, the only intelligible words coming out of his mouth since Alexander had entered the tent.

Hamilton and Lafayette rushed over. Laf quickly took place beside John, leaving Hamilton in the dust. _Damn my short legs_ , Hamilton thought to himself, readjusting his uniform as he moved in an effort to make himself look somewhat presentable — or at the very least, not as shitty as he felt.

“Hey,” he whispered as John caught sight of him.

Laurens immediately ceased kicking out with his legs, but his breaths were still coming out in short gasps, and Alex could seen the sheen of sweat coating his forehead when his face wasn’t scrunched up in pain.

Alex made a split-second decision before taking Hercules’s spot at John’s head, burying his hands into the knotted mane, doing his best to ignore John’s abdomen. From a quick passing glance, it hadn’t looked good. Blood was steadily leaking from wound, and his muscles kept spasming around the area as shivers wracked his battered body. 

Hercules instinctively moved over to John’s left side, while Lafayette settled on his right, giving Alex plenty of room to fret over his friend. Hamilton had the tendency to talk a lot when he was anxious about something, which was exactly what he started doing now. Doing his best to calm John down without working himself up too much was a difficult task, but John’s hair running through his fingers acted as an anchor to keep Alex grounded. 

The doctors and other medical aides tried to give the a decent amount of privacy, but continued working on John despite his outburst. The lead surgeon raised an eyebrow at Alex when he caught his eye, pressing a cloth to John’s mangled stomach. Clearly he wasn’t used to the two men’s rather... _close_ relationship.

Ignoring the silent judgement, he turned his attention back to John’s face and continued rambling under his breath. His words were a combination of reassurances and apologies, along with other incoherent babble, with a word or two of spanish thrown in for good measure. Alex was begging for forgiveness before long, the exhaustion and emotions catching up with him in this intimate moment frozen in time. He wasn’t even aware he was crying until John tentatively reached up with his left hand and brushed a tear away from Alex’s cheek.

“Idiot,” he said, still slightly out of breath and voice slurred with pain. “Not your faul’. ”

Hamilton just bent his head in shame. “I should’ve been covering you. I should’ve warned you I was leaving your side, or that I was being shot at, at the very least I should’ve done _something_ — ”

“Shu’ up,” Laurens huffed out, followed by an apologetic, yet teasing grin. Despite the intense pain he was in, John Laurens’ sense of humour was still intact.

Alex let out a shaky laugh and continued to smooth John’s hair. “Ever so eloquent, my dear Laurens,” he said, smiling down at the man through watery eyes.

John started to chuckle but was quickly interrupted when a doctor lightly prodded his stomach. He let out a sharp gasp of pain and batted at the hands around his abdomen. Once again, people tugged his arms down to his sides, trying to prevent him from messing up his stomach even more. The rough handling made him feel like an animal, like he was not capable of thinking on his own. The doctor continued his intrusive actions, making John writhe on the table. Tears streamed down his face at the treatment, and he let out little whines when the pain flared up.

“Stop! What the fuck are you doing?” Hamilton spat out, eyes shooting daggers at the medical personnel. His hands tightened into fists where they were intertwined throughout Laurens’ hair.

The doctor just glared up at Alex. “I know how to do my job. I’m checking to see the pain level, where the bullet is, if it lacerated the bowels-”

Alex cut him off with a sharp exhale, and the medic just turned back to his — what seemed like _torturous_ — exploring. After a particularly deep poke into the wound, John howled with pain and began thrashing, attempting to get away. A high keening noise made its way out of John’s mouth, much like a wounded animal. He flailed about even harder, getting one of his arms loose.

Hercules cursed and stepped back as John unintentionally lashed out and landed a hit right in his groin. A doctor shouted orders — something about opium? — and a kid, appearing no older than sixteen, rushed off to retrieve whatever the doctor had ordered. Alex tried to calm John down, but his usual methods weren’t working as John was too far lost in his own agony.

Eventually, John stopped resisting, shutting down and curling as much into himself as he could with all of the people invading his personal space. One hand clasped tightly around his stomach, his teeth began chattering as chills overtook his body. His pupils had dilated an alarming amount, and he seemed like he wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings.

The kid returned with a little vial of some mysterious substance. The doctor promptly forced the liquid into John’s mouth, which he instinctively swallowed. With the contents in the vial now working its magic, John’s eyes slowly began to close, and he blissfully slipped into unconsciousness. 

“Why didn’t you do that before?” Alexander said through gritted teeth as he thought about all the unnecessary pain Laurens had just gone through.

The doctor glared at Alex before answering. “We didn’t think we needed it at first; he was already unconscious when he got here. It can also be dangerous, given the possible bleeding in his intestines — we didn’t want to use it unless absolutely necessary. Then he woke up when we were cleaning the area and began panicking, and you saw just how... intense that was."

Satisfied with the answer but still disgruntled about John’s rough handling, he sat back and continued his rounds through John’s hair. The doctors exchanged a few quick words quietly amongst themselves, the urgency of their tones not going unnoticed by the trio. Hercules had recovered from the unfortunate hit, and Lafayette was on John’s other side, murmuring in french — either to himself or John, Alex was unaware which.

The lead medical expert turned toward the men, his carefully schooled expression not betraying any emotion towards John’s condition. “We need you to leave. Now. His wound is beginning to show signs of infection, and we need to operate on him immediately. We’ll have someone get you when we’ve finished.”

Hamilton squawked indignantly at the suggestion, and was about to argue until Hercules and Lafayette ushered him out before he could say a word.

“Hey! Let go of me!” Alex protested once they were out of the tent.

Both men released him, if not a little hesitantly. Slightly wounded at the childish treatment, Alex straightened up and fixed his cravat. He could understand Hercules treating him like a kid, seeing as he was significantly older than him, but _Lafayette_? No, Laf was even younger than him. It simply wouldn’t do for Laf to be more mature than him. 

Peeking back inside the tent revealed a whirlwind of activity around John’s cot. John’s pliant body was being maneuvered around and his clothes were being mostly shorn off with a pair of peculiar looking scissors. Other patients in the tent had their eyes fixed on the entertainment, whispering to each other. It pained Alex to see John like that. His best friend, someone who’d always had his back ever since they met, now lying on the verge of death because of his own stupid mistake.

Ducking out of the depressing atmosphere, Alex made his way back to his tent before the past few days’ events could catch up with him.


	4. Pacing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't get to publish yesterday! I was at my grandma's helping plan a baby shower. Anyway, enjoy!

Only a half hour later, Alexander found himself pacing outside the med tent, muttering darkly under his breath.

Several times, his friends tried to coax him to sit down and rest or eat something, but their attempts were unsuccessful and eventually, they would give up and leave him alone.

Time seemed to drag on slower than ever. After another half hour, Lafayette grabbed Hamilton by his shoulders and steered him in an unfamiliar direction, much to Alex’s chagrin.

“Let go! Where the fuck are we going?”

Lafayette just continued ignoring him, with a slight admonition in french regarding his vulgar language. Hamilton was too exhausted to fight, and allowed his French friend to lead him away.

Sooner or later, they arrived in front of a small tent with a little French flag waving over it in the breeze. Lafayette opened the flap and dragged Hamilton through the door.

“Lie down and sleep, _mon ami,_ ” he said with a small smile, gesturing to his cot.

Grumbling under his breath, Hamilton flopped over onto the cot, turning to face the mouth of the tent and curling into himself. It was a gesture borne from a rough upbringing and tough life-be able to survey the entrance, take up the least amount of space possible, and protect your most vulnerable organs.

Settling at a desk across from Hamilton, Lafayette pulled out some ink and a piece of paper that he pored over for another twenty minutes, mumbling to himself at intervals and scribbling furiously. Alexander wondered what he was writing about, and was about to voice his questions when Lafayette sighed heavily.

“Go to sleep, _petit Alexandre_ ,” he said without turning around.

“I’m not little. What are you writing, anyway? I’ve never seen you so focused.”

Lafayette pushed the paper back on the desk and ran his fingers nervously through his hair. “It is a letter. To my, um, _épouse_.”

Hamilton was surprised at the revelation. “I didn’t know you had a wife.”

Lafayette grinned sheepishly, a blush darkening his features. “Yes, well, I left her in behind in France when I came here. I doubt she will be too happy with me when I get back... My Adrienne is quite the woman. I love her dearly, but she does have a _personalité ardente_.”

A wistful expression overtook his features as he fondly remembered his wife. “I try to write to her as often as I can, for I never know if I’ll be able to see her again.” His face turned guilty for a second. “I fear I have not been the best husband. I left her alone in France with my newborn son, and my two daughters. ”

Hamilton could relate all too well with Lafayette — even though he was new to married life, his heart swelled at the thought of his Betsey. “What are your children’s names?” he said softly.

“My eldest is _Henriette_ , and then _Anastasie_. And my son...” he paused.

“What’s your son’s name?”

Lafayette blushed harder. “He is _Georges Washington de Lafayette_.”

Hamilton chuckled at his friend. Lafayette’s love for the general was legendary — it was no surprise he’d _actually named his firstborn son_ after him.

Still giggling to himself, Alexander turned around to face the side of the tent and closed his eyes. It was getting colder out, and the thin fabric did little to keep out the chill. He shivered slightly and heard Lafayette _tsk_ from behind him, before settling a blanket over the smaller man. It was scratchy and smelled of smoke, but Hamilton wrapped it around tighter, grateful for its warmth. Despite living in America for over eight years, he still had Caribbean blood flowing through his veins-and his body had always been sensitive to the cold.

Eventually, his exhausted body screamed for a reprieve, and Hamilton fell asleep to the comforting sound of a quill scratching paper as the Marquis wrote to his beloved wife.

* * *

 

Alexander bolted upright with a gasp when he came to a few hours later. A confused looking camp courier was halfway in the tent wearing a startled expression, and Lafayette shouted loudly and backed away at Hamilton’s reaction.

“ _Alexandre_ ,  _que se passe-t-il_ !? What the hell just happened!?” Laf screeched, panting heavily and clutching his chest. “I was just about to wake you.”

Hamilton pressed his hands into his forehead, a pounding headache splitting his skull. The last dredges of his nightmare washed over him, and he desperately tried to ignore them.

_He was on the battlefield again, but he moved as if through molasses. The familiar presence of Laurens was behind him, giving him the strength to continue, despite knowing it was hopeless._

_Then a face appeared in his vision_ _—_ _the greasy hair, crooked teeth, and blazing red coat of a British soldier. He fired at Alexander, but missed._

_It headed straight for Laurens._

_The bullet made contact in slow motion, the shell exploding and shredding through Laurens’ abdomen. The skin ripped where the shrapnel made contact, and blood sprayed out as it went deeper into the muscle. It continued on, wrenching through his bowels, and each time the tissue ripped, the sound was amplified until it was as loud as a cannon. The remainder of the shell came out John’s back, leaving a gaping hole that was as wide as a fist. Laurens howled as the pain hit him, a sound of pure agony as he collapsed, and Hamilton screamed with him as he saw his best friend go down because of him._

Shaking his head lightly to get rid of the remnants of the dream, Alex threw the covers off of him and stood up shakily. Noticing the courier, who had an agitated look on his face, Hamilton immediately bombarded him with questions. “Is Laurens alright? Is he out of surgery? Did he make it through? Is he dead? Is he okay? Does he need me? Did he ask for — ”

“Alexander, slow down. Let the poor man speak,” Lafayette chided.

As the attention turned to him, the young messenger shrunk a little smaller under the two men’s curious gazes. “Um, I don’t know about lieutenant colonel Laurens, I’m afraid. General Washington sent me to ask for your written report if it was complete, and if not, go to him immediately — ”

The man was interrupted by Hamilton leaping across the tent, uniform and hair askew as he tried to race past. 

“Shit, the report, of course, uh, tell him I’ll be there — just give me a minute, damnit — ”

He raced of, cursing himself for taking a nap — _a fucking nap, are you kidding me, Hamilton? Since when do you nap? There’s work to do!_ Arriving at his tent a few moments later, he ripped open the flap and began madly scrambling around, gathering papers and anything that looked remotely official — _oops, and a letter to Eliza. Better not give_ that _to the general_. 

Once again tearing off in the general direction of Washington’s tent, he flipped through his papers, trying to see if he actually wrote down anything legible.

_“On the day of December 12 1780 the Marquis de Lafayete and Hercules Mulligan and aides-de-camps Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens completede scouing and securing the area surrounding Morristown_

_It was a successsful mission sans one detail, which came at the expense of lieutenant Ccolonel Jon Laurens who was shot in the abdomn by an enemy redco”_

Apparently, he did not.

Lafayette walked up behind him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. His eyes twinkled as they stared down, and they continued on their not-so-merry way toward the general’s tent.

Once inside, they joined Hercules in front of the general’s desk. He looked slightly nervous, which was out of character for the tailor, yet still attempted to give a reassuring smile.

Hamilton turned his attention to the general, saluting along with Lafayette. Washington returned it tiredly, and all hands dropped.

“Hamilton, your report,” Washington said, shuffling some papers around before providing his undivided attention to the three.

“Sir, I apologize, but I don’t have it completely written down yet, if we could do this meeting even in fifteen minutes or so —”

“Just speak, then.”

So Hamilton calmly started talking, going over all the events that had transpired over the past few days. Eventually, his equable speaking gave way to nervous rambles, and words began tumbling out of his mouth quicker than he could stop them. 

“...and then, we all got ambushed by maybe six or eight redcoats, sir, and Lieutenant Colonel Laurens was shot in the abdomen —he is still probably in surgery now—and the Marquis was the one who came rushing back to bring aid while myself and Mulligan stayed with Laurens, just trying to stop the bleeding...there was so much blood...”

He trailed off, thinking back to last night. Washington nodded, unperturbed by the news. Hamilton simmered at the general’s callous attitude—Laurens was one of Washington's best aides! Of course, besides Hamilton, but he should be looking more than just nonplussed at the news that one of his closest members was just shot in the stomach, possibly going to die from it...

“I expect the official report by the end of the day. I’ll have a new assignment for you in a couple days. For now, rest and recuperate. You’re all dismissed.”  


The three of them left his office, heading back toward the med tent.

“He certainly seems busy nowadays,” Lafayette said half-heartedly as he opened the tent flap, almost walking face-first into a startled messenger. “ _Merde! Désolé, petit monsieur!_ Apologies—I did not see you!” 

The messenger—a boy no older than fifteen, it appeared—vigorously nodded his head and squeaked out something that vaguely sounded like, “Lafayette”.

“Yes?”

“They were just sending me to get you, and Mr. Mulligan, and, um...” the kid gestured, searching for the name.

Lafayette raised his eyebrow. “Hamilton?”

“Yes! That’s the one!”

“That is fine, then. We are all here,” he said, trying to hide his amusement.

They continued on to the back of the tent, all trying to hide their nervousness. Lafayette was wringing his hands and Hamilton was manically running his finger through his hair, which did nothing to save his bed-head. Hercules was repeating the same word over and over under his breath while his hands moved subtly as if he were sewing. All of them were sweating in their feet, and the feeling only worsened when the surly caught sight of the men and began approaching.

“Before you get to close, let him rest a bit. We completed the surgery, and he’s all bandaged up. Unfortunately, he lost a lot of blood, and still unconscious. The bullet went straight through from back to front, just above his left hipbone. It punctured his large intestine, and tore through his outermost abdominal muscle. We stitched everything up besides the skin, which we’ll leave open to let infection drain out. How he’s still alive is a mystery, and not likely to last too long. I’d give him a couple more days, at most, before infection takes hold.” 

Alex just about punched the doctor at that, but took a deep breath to steady himself. His friends tried to comfort him, but he shrugged off their hands.

John will make it.

He has to make it.


	5. Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I forgot to publish yesterday!

The days continued to pass at an aggravating rate. Hercules was originally going to travel back his tailor shop, but had decided to extend his visit to help take care of John, and to see how things turned out. Washington piled work onto Alexander, keeping him busy. Usually he wouldn’t mind the workload, but right now, all he wanted to do was curl up at Laurens’ bedside until John woke up, completely healed and ready to go back to his old, happy, impulsive self.

Alex spent every moment he wasn’t working with John, who seemed to be getting worse as time passed. A fever took hold shortly into day two, and still hadn’t gone down.

He still hadn’t woken up.

Mulligan and Lafayette, as well as a couple other soldiers, were almost always floating around John’s bed whenever Alex was there, and they promised him that someone would always be at his bed in case he woke up.

Four days after the incident, Alex had essentially joined Laurens on his journey to death. He hadn’t slept except for the cat-nap in Laf’s tent, and had had very little to eat. His movements were jerky, and he was snappier than usual. 

Once again, he was at the head of Laurens’ bed, almost quivering as he reverently stroked John’s hair —fixing it up into a ponytail, becoming dissatisfied with the results, and starting over again. Frustrated tears prickled his eyes. He couldn’t make it the way John normally had it, but it _had_ to be just right for when John woke up, otherwise he wouldn’t feel right, because he never wore his hair down, said it got in his face, and, and, and—

Alex was so caught up in his own thoughts, he didn’t even realize Lafayette entering the tent. It wasn’t until he spoke up, with a quiet, “ _Mon ami?_ ” that Hamilton registered another person in the room, turning his intense gaze towards the Frenchman.

“Come along to bed. How much have you slept these past few days? I have not seen you retire to your tent since we got back.”

Hamilton scoffed. “I’m fine, Laf. I need to be here, just in case he wakes up. What kind of friend would I be if I abandoned him right now?”

“The kind who will not pass out when he wakes up, worrying him more. Come on, _petit lion_.”

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbled, though far too exhausted for any real irritation.

He stood up and followed Lafayette (who had a steady grip on Hamilton’s shoulder, as the shorter swayed when he walked), but instead of going back to Laf’s tent, they stopped outside of his own. “A long rest on your own cot will do you well,” he said, exaggeratedly swishing open the tent flap.

Hamilton ducked under Laf’s arm and into the tent. It was cold fromlack of activity, the only thing being used in the past few days being his desk for the various reports Washington had made him write or look over.

Lafayette lit a couple candles, which did very little to ward off the chill, but at least allowed them to see. He disappeared out of the tent, coming back a moment later with a bucket of water.

“Change your clothes and wash; you will feel better after you do.” Lafayette turned around, sitting on the desk chair.

Hamilton took off his shirt, revealing the healing wound across his stomach. It was closing up nicely, for the most part, but it would no doubt leave a deep scar. He washed away the grime that had accumulated on his torso, arms, and face (being careful around the goose egg that had developed), then tried scrubbing at his hair. There was still remnants of dried blood on it—he hadn’t gotten around to cleaning up after John... 

His hands kept getting tangled as he ran his hand through the dark strands. In his sleep-deprived state, this seemed to be the tipping point. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he was just ripping his own hair out at this point. 

“ _Non, Alex! Arrêtes! Merde, tu as besoin de dormir._ ”

Lafayette took Alex’s hands in his own. What started as an action meant to prevent Alex from harming himself quickly turned into an embrace as the older went completely limp in Laf’s arms. Hamilton wasn’t outright sobbing, but tears began staining Lafayette’s shirt.

“ _Shh, petit. Il va s'améliorer. Tu vas bien._ ” 

He continued trying to comfort Alex, before picking up a brush and dipping it in the water. He brushed through Hamilton’s hair, periodically wetting the brush to make it glide through. The water quickly turned brown with all the dirt, dust, blood, and sweat. 

“It’s hard, Laf. I don’t want him to die. He doesn’t _deserve_ to die. It should’ve been me.” Hamilton’s voice was muffled by the fabric of Lafayette’s shirt, along with slurring because of how tired he was.

“It’ll be fine, _mon petit lion._ We all know Laurens has a lot of fight in him; I doubt he will give up so easily,” Lafayette replied, continuing to snag the last few knots.

After ten minutes, the tears stopped, and Alex finally appeared to have exhausted himself. He wasn’t quite asleep, but he was definitely on the border of awareness and rest. His hair was clean, and Laf rearranged the two of them so Hamilton was lying on his side on the cot with his head slightly propped up. 

“ _C’est bien_?” Laf asked once he was situated.

Hamilton didn’t even bother verbally responding, just slightly nodded his head.

Lafayette covered him with the blanket, then picked up the brush again. He split the top part of Hamilton’s hair in three sections, and gently began braiding them together.

Grab hair; cross hair; add hair; repeat. His fingers started off a little shaky, as it had been months since he had done a french braid, and Hamilton’s hair was a very different texture than that of his daughters’ or wife’s.

Hamilton’s mass of hair transformed into a slightly messy, yet still beautiful braid cascading down past his shoulders.

Satisfied with his work and the little snores coming from his Alexander’s mouth, he left the tent, looking to take a nap himself.

* * *

Barely an hour later, Hercules was shaking Alex awake. Just as well, Alex still felt too upset to sleep for long anyway.

“Hey, wake up—Washington wants to see you,” he said as Hamilton pushed his arm off.

That got his attention. “What for? Have I not been working hard enough for him?” 

Mulligan put his hands up in a ‘surrender’ gesture. “I’m just delivering the news ’cause the general is having difficulty giving me things to do.” Hamilton raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Okay, so he’s been giving me the odd jobs that nobody wants to do and I’m procrastinating. Would _you_ like to empty out the communal can?” Herc shivered. “It’s nasty.”

Hamilton gave a tired smile and put on his jacket, preparing himself for whatever Washington had planned.

He made his way over, taking a few deep breaths, and entered. Washington was standing over his desk, surveying a map. When he caught sight of the younger, he let out a genuine smile. Of course, it was Washington, so it seemed more like a quick quirk of the lips than an actual grin, but Hamilton had been around the general long enough to know that he was holding back a chuckle. “Nice hair, son,” he said, running a hand over his own bald head.

Hamilton saluted, mentally berating himself to forget to do so before. Washington waved him off. “I want to get you started on something new today. It’s a bit big, but nothing you can’t handle. Now—”

Hamilton’s fatigue turned to rage. “With all due respect sir, will this assignment accomplish anything in the near or far future, or will it just be another fucking useless attempt at distracting me from our real issues?”  
  
“First of all, language, Hamilton—

“Sir, almost everything you’ve made me do has been absolutely inconsequential to the war efforts. I’ve written letters to a thousand different people a thousand different times. I don’t see how me citing old arguments is helping. I know it’s my job, but, Sir, but I’ve accomplished everything you’ve asked of me—and more! All I ask is that I actually contribute by doing things that matter, and at the moment, perhaps for some time that will allow me to be with Lieutenant Colonel Laurens when he needs it. You remember Laurens? One of your aides-de-camps? Whom you have not even acknowledged even once since the incident? Sir, you could at least pretend to care about those who serve you most loyally.”

He finished the short rant, slumping forward and gripping the edge of a nearby desk chair with tears in his eyes. It wasn’t good form to let down your guard so completely in front of your commanding officer. Then again, it was probably worse to go off on the general.

Hamilton straightened back up as soon as Washington opened his mouth. “I’ve let you say your piece; my turn. Don’t make the mistake of assuming that I don’t care about those fighting for our cause in this war, no matter how close or distant they are to me personally. I do care about Lieutenant Colonel Laurens—but caring won’t help him, me, or anyone else. I’m a major general, and with that, not only do I constantly have a lot of things on my mind that require the bulk of my attention, but I have responsibilities—to myself, to my soldiers, to the rest of the Colonies. I can’t afford to focus on one wounded soldier, and even if he’s part of my closest circle, I’m not allowed to show such obvious favouritism. You know this, son.” Washington paused as he studied the other’s features. Noticing the dark circles and unnaturally pale skin, he said, “When was the last time you slept?”

“Fifteen minutes ago, sir.”

“When’s the last time you got more than six hours of sleep?”

Hamilton tried to count, before giving up, shrugging. His shoulders were still tense, and he was wearing a wicked scowl.

“Five hours?”

Shake of the head.

“Four?”

Alexander paused. “About five days ago, sir.”

“Go to bed, Hamilton. Rest. Recuperate. Come back when you’re useful.”

They both saluted, and Hamilton slunk out. At the entrance, he turned back around. “Sir?”

Washington looked up, surprised. “Yes?”

“My apologies...for what I said. It was uncalled for and disrespectful. I promise it won’t happen again.”

Washington smirked to himself. “Good night, Hamilton.”

He exited the tent, furious at himself for fucking up so badly, while simultaneously too tired to care. As he walked back to his own tent, he went slightly out of his way to pass the med tent.

Ducking inside ( _just for a moment, of course,_ his mind supplies. _Still need to nap, to keep your strength up for when Laurens awakens_ ), he made his way to the back where John was still passed out. There was no one around him, not even a nurse.   
  
Alex took a seat, putting a hand to John’s forehead to take his temperature. It was slightly cooler than this morning, but still far too warm for comfort. Still, Hamilton counted it as a win for the day.

He brushed John’s hair out of his face—it must have fallen when he shifted in his sleep—and his fingers lingered for just a second. 

That second was all it took before John stirred. A slight shudder went through his body, and his eyes popped open. 

Alex’s heart stopped when he saw those beautiful eyes for the first time in days. The way the candlelight’s reflection danced across them, revealing thousands of shades of brown. The way they were frantically searching around for imaginary enemies. The way they scrunched at the corners due to pain or fever. The way they made him feel as though he was melting into them, made him feel speechless every time they landed on him, even just for a fleeting moment.

After four interminable days, John Laurens was finally awake.


	6. Infection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's two chapters today since I missed yesterday! AlsoI might not get anything out for the next week or so because of exams, but I'm almost done writing this! Hope you enjoy!

As soon as John’s eyes met Alex’s, they screwed shut in pain. His mouth opened as he began panting, breaths coming out in harsh wheezes.

Alex grabbed his hand, which John squeezed tightly. His hands were hot, almost unbearably so, and covered in a thin layer of sweat.

John opened his mouth as if trying to speak, but only a gasp of pain came out.

“Shh, I know it’s hard; you don’t have to talk right now,” Alex said, gripping his hand tighter. Laurens was growing increasingly pale in his panic, which was definitely not beneficial to his health.

“Hey, I need a medic over here!” Alex called out.

A doctor hurriedly ran over, looking slightly frazzled. He was young, and inexperienced, it appeared. 

Quashing down feelings of hopelessness at the presence of the less-than-stellar physician, he turned his attention back to Lauren, who was beginning to shake. Violent tremors coursed through his entire body, likely a side effect from the fever.

The doctor removed the blanket covering Laurens. He tsked when he pulled back the bandages covering John’s injured abdomen, a look of worry spreading across his features before he quickly put on a mask of calm.

Hamilton nearly threw up at the sight.

The wound was a sickly shade of green, swollen and red around the edges. It radiated heat, which was never a good sign. 

The only thing worse than how it looked was how it _smelled_.

It smelled of old blood and sickness, something Hamilton never wanted to to see on his Laurens. Yet, here they were.

Infection had set in.

* * *

Hamilton had to leave the tent shortly after.

A swarm of doctors crowded around John, trying to get a better look at the wound. They were clearly worried about how bad it was, but tried to hide their concerned expressions behind one of pure concentration.

Alex could relate.

_Focus on the job; try to remedy any issues as quickly as possible before a worse one comes to light._

When he was outside, he went racing to find Herc and Lafayette.

Laf was in his tent with Hercules, laughing over some joke the latter made when Hamilton burst in full-speed, panting heavily from the run. 

“John—he—he—”

“ _Alexandre, calmez-vous si’l vous plaît._ What happened? Is our little Laurens okay?”

“He’s awake. Laurens is awake.”

Both of them stood up quickly, Herc knocking over the stool he was sitting on.

“Can we see him?” he asked, trying to set the damned stool upright again.

Hamilton paused. “Well, they’re working on him right now—”

“Why? What happened? Is he okay?”

“He—well, I don’ know if he’s going to be alright,” Alex said, nervously fidgeting with his braid. “The wound...it’s infected.”

Lafayette sucked in a breath while Hercules shook his head with disbelief. They both tied to put on a brave face when they noticed how shattered Hamilton was, but it did nothing to calm his nerves.

They left together and headed back to the med tent.

When they got back, the crowd had cleared away enough for the three to squeeze through without getting too much in the way. They each took their respective spot at Laurens’ side. John was squirming uncomfortably as doctors prodded his stomach, eyes scrunched shut and forehead sweating from the fever. The only colour was to his flushed face.

Suddenly, he rolled over on his side and began retching. It was mostly bile, as he hadn’t had anything to eat since before he got shot. The worst part was the red tinge that coated the edges...meaning...meaning...

Meaning his internal organs were compromised.

Laurens curled up after he was finished, groaning incoherently. His breaths were short and sharp, little more than harsh gasps. It took several minutes for him to get it under control, Hamilton doing his best to soothe with cold fingers running through his tangled hair.

“Alexander,” John said after an eternity, voice barely a whisper.

“Yes, I’m here,” he said, tears running down his face, which he frantically wiped away.

“How...” A wince of pain. “...how bad is it?”

Hamilton looked down, noting how swollen it was, red around the edges, while the wound itself was a deep purple.

“It could be better, my dear Laurens.”

“Then...I think it’s time.”

Alex’s heart dropped. “Time for what?”

“You know what. Fetch some...parchment and ink, please. Will you write for me?”

Taking a deep breath to collect his thoughts, Hamilton nodded. “Of course.”

And thus came the final will and testament of one John Laurens.

* * *

John couldn’t breathe without a shooting pain in his abdomen.

When he woke up, he couldn’t remember where he was. All he knew was that he was likely in danger, if the pain was anything to go by. There was no way he was safe when his world felt like it was collapsing around him.

Then his eyes met someone’s, and it all came together. Alex’s warm brown eyes stared worriedly at him, but if Alex was keeping watch, he was _safe, safe, safe,_ no matter the pain.

So he let his eyes shut quickly as the pain overwhelmed him, forcing pained breaths out of his airway. A hand was on his head, soothing him, and he tried to speak, but _damn it_ , the words weren’t coming out, he was in too much pain...

John vaguely heard Alex—his dear Alex—call for a medic. Then a young man rushed over, and lunged straight for his stomach, intent on ripping him apart—

No, he as just removing the bandages, but dear _lord_ , it hurt like a motherfucker.

He must’ve passed out again because the next time he looked up, Alex wasn’t there; it was only him and a swarm of strangers touching the current most sensitive part of his body—his belly.

He yelled and kicked, but they just pinned him down and continued their examination. After a few more minutes of excruciating pain, they cleared away except for two, who began rewrapping the wound.

Suddenly, Alex’s face was back in his red-and-black-tinged vision, with a cold hand cradling his head.

It was fine for a while until he felt the first traces of burning bile in his throat.

When he threw up, each convulsion made him want to cry in pain, but he didn’t have the energy. He was too tired to be ashamed of the mess he must’ve been making, hardly aware of anything but the agony in his stomach.   
  
As soon as he felt it was over, Laurens curled up in a tight ball, trying to quell the nausea. Noises escaped him quite without his consent, and he was no more in control of them than he was in the sweat beading his brow.

Luckily, the attack only lasted a few minutes, though it felt like forever. He became alert to the fingers running through his hair as he trembled uncontrollably. Once he focused on that, he began to finally relax.

“Alexander,” he barely got out.

“Yes, I’m here,” he said, tears running down his face, which he frantically wiped away.

“How...” Pain threatened to overcome him, but he tried to hold it back.“...how bad is it?”

A beat passed.

“It could be better, my dear Laurens.”

Closing his eyes, he realized what needed to be done.

“Then...I think it’s time.”

“Time for what?” Alex said, sounding near the verge of tears.

“You know what. Fetch some...parchment and ink, please. Will you write for me?”

Hamilton took a deep breath. “Of course.”

* * *

Writing a will for John Laurens was the hardest thing Alexander had ever done in his life.

It wasn’t his first brush with death—his mother, his cousin, and countless others in the war—but this was Laurens. His colleague. His friend.

_His lov_ —

His closest friend.

John was trying to keep up a brave face, but Hamilton gad known him long enough to see through the façade. Staring at the face of death in the eye was enough to make anyone lose their courage, especially when they knew it was coming soon. 

But Laurens did his best.

And sure, he struggled, but who wouldn’t?

The rest of the group did their best to convince him he would survive; it’s just he fever talking; he’s always been a fighter; but they knew it was hopeless.

Still, they did their best to stay positive, whereas John took a more realistic view.

“There’s no point; I don’t need you all consoling me or filling me with false confidence. The wound is infected. There’s nothing that can be done.”

“Laurens—”

“Stop, okay?” John shouted. Just as he was about to argue more, a spike of pain shot through his body, silencing him with a gasp and causing him to break out in a cold sweat.

He curled up for another couple minutes trying to get the pain under control. 

“It’s fine,” he said once the attack was finished. “I’ve accepted my fate. Alexander, _do not follow me_. Under any circumstance. It was not your fault.”

“Stop talking like that,” Alex said, tears in his eyes. “You’ll get through this. I know you will.”

Too tired to argue, John instead drifted off to sleep.


	7. Breakdown

Alex was barely holding on after Laurens passed out again.

“Excuse me, I need to...take a walk,” he said, lying the quill and parchment on a nearby table.

He stood up and exited the tent, frantically trying to control himself.

Once he was far enough away, he allowed himself to break down.

Hamilton collapsed onto the ground in a heap, sobs making their way out from deep within his chest. He was shaking, shaking so badly, every muscle tensed like a snake ready to lunge for its prey. His fists slammed on the ground, then again, and soon he was pummeling the earth before him. He then angrily ripped off the tie in his hair, running his fingers through it and pulling at the root, curling into a ball as he did so.

_It’s not fair_ , he thought. _Why couldn’t it have been me?_

He knew thoughts such as those were childish, but he didn’t care. Why should he have to hold himself together when everything was falling apart?

Eventually, he collected himself and just stared angrily at the damp dirt beside the river. He scooted forward and splashed some water in his face, desperately trying to rub off the grime. When it irritated the still-healing wound on his head, he scrubbed harder until the scab flaked off and it started to bleed.

Staring down at his reflection, Alex had only one thought. _God, what a pitiful sight._

_“Alexandre?”_ a voice called from behind him.

He turned around, letting the tears and blood flow freely down his face.

“Oh _, mon petit, qu’est-il arrivé?”_ a voice said from behind him.

“Laf,” he croaked out.

Lafayette leaned down carefully next to him, talking in a low voice. “You’ve ruined your hair, _Monsieur Hamilton._ I worked very hard on it. Come along, we will go back to your tent and straighten some things out.”

Lafayette helped him stand, pressing a handkerchief to his bleeding head. He cringed at the pain and Lafayette tsked.

“Next time you are going to do something like this, you come and get me, alright, _mon lion?_ We cannot have you hurting yourself.”

Hamilton nodded as best as he could with Lafayette’s hand still on his forehead. 

The two walked back towards Hamilton’s tent, Alex dabbing away tears with the clean part of the now-bloody handkerchief. Lafayette held open the flap and ushered Hamilton inside.

Once in, Laf sat Alex down on the bed and examined his wound. “Hmm...keep pressure, I think. Other than that, do you want me to do anything?”

Hamilton shook his head. “I just...I just need to be alone for a while.”

“Very well. My tent is always open for you, _petit Alex.”_

“I’m not that small, Laf.”  


_“Oui,_ but I am _un géant.”_

Alex nodded, too tired to laugh at the joke.

Lafayette left the tent with a sigh, and Hamilton got to work.

That was the thing about Alexander Hamilton; very few things were important enough to distract him from his work, and those things were often upsetting enough that he needed to distract himself—by working.

So he threw himself into his work, not that it was anything important; A few letters to congress that he had written a dozen times over asking for support, organizing different strategies and plans for battles he would never see, and writing letters to various captains and generals. After that was complete, he began writing a letter to his dearest Eliza. But each stroke of the quill, his eyes became heavier, and soon he was too exhausted to resist the siren call of sleep.

Slumping forward, Hamilton gave in to unconsciousness.

* * *

 

Lafayette was worried about Hamilton.

Alex was a man of intensity, especially where emotions were concerned. He wore his heart on his sleeve, while simultaneously being relatively private in nature. Ask him about his opinion or feelings about anything, and he could spit out a thirty page essay in no time at all.

But ask him about his past? That was something Alex just didn’t open up about.

John knew all about it, through whispered words late at night. He hadn’t outright shared any of the intimate information, but Lafayette knew Alexander’s life had been filled with tragedy so far.

And now, for the friend Alexander trusted the most to be suffering with an infected gunshot wound? 

Yes, Lafayette was worried he would finally reach his breaking point.

Lafayette expressed his concerns to Mulligan, who shared his worry. “That kid would do anything for Laurens, and vice versa. I’m don’t know what he’ll do when—” Hercules stopped himself. “— _if_ Laurens doesn’t make it.”

“I left him alone in his tent; I do not know if that was a wise decision.”

“Give him an hour or two, then we’ll go check on him. He needs time to stew.”

“Like _un pomme de terre_.”

“Exactly.”

* * *

 

An hour and a half later, when hey went to check on Hamilton, they found him asleep at his deck, quill in hand.

Knowing this was the first bit of sleep he’d gotten in days, they gently shook him awake, carefully led the groggy man to the bed, and tucked him in as if they were mothers.

Then, quietly, they left the tent, and Hamilton fell back asleep, thinking of John Laurens.

* * *

 

When he woke up, daylight was peeking through the entrance of his tent, which meant one thing.

_Oh shit, his was late for his daily assignments from Washington._

Leaping out of bed, he raced across the camp to the General’s tent, hastily trying to fix his hair and look somewhat presentable.

He barged in the door, gave a quick salute, then rushed through his apology.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I don’t know what got into me—I mean, I even fell asleep early last night, I don’t know why I didn’t wake up—”  


“Hamilton.”

“Someone should’ve come for me. I promise it will never happen again, sir—”

“Hamilton.”

Alex shut up.

“You should go visit Colonel Laurens.”

“Sir?” Hamilton questioned, fear in his eyes.

Washington sighed. “They don’t know how much longer he’ll last. He’s been getting worse in the past twelve hours—”

“Twelve hours? Sir, what time is it?”  


“Roughly 2:30, son.”

Hamilton did the math quickly in his head. “I’ve been asleep for sixteen hours and _nobody thought to wake me up when Laurens was deteriorating?_ ”

“On my orders. You needed the sleep.”

“May I be excused, sir?”  


“As you were.”

And once again, Hamilton was sprinting full-speed across the camp, back to the med tent.

When he opened the flap, several soldiers were huddled around Laurens, including Laf and Herc. 

And John?

John looked _awful._

He was trembling uncontrollably, sweat pouring off his brow. He as pallid to the point of being nearly grey, which looked so wrong on John. His breaths came in uneven pants, pain etched across his face.

Lafayette noticed him first, and moved over without a word. Alex rushed over, grabbing John’s clammy hands. 

John’s breaths turned even heavier. Hamilton recognized the shaky sound he made with each exhale, and prayed for John to hold on.

_Just wake up one more time,_ he thought. _one more time. For me._

“C’mon, John, hold on, hold on, hold on...”

Laurens struggled for breath, his lungs rattling as he tried to get in oxygen.

Until suddenly, he wasn’t struggling anymore, and his chest settled one last time.

The room went quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not get another chapter up for while sorry :/ I had most of it written out and the response hasn't been what I was hoping for so I may be discontinuing it. I only have three chapters left though so we'll see how this goes. If this is the last chapter, I hope you guys enjoyed the ride so far


	8. Gone, Gone, Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again! Sorry it took me so long—I've been super busy, but y'all have blown me away with your positive response to this story. So, I'm gonna try to finish it. Enjoy this chapter, sorry for the wait.

John Laurens was dead.  
 ****

John Laurens was dead.

John Laurens was dead, and it felt as if he had taken Hamilton to the grave with him.

In fact, Hamilton stopped breathing when John did, waiting for him to take another breath.

_This can’t be happening_ , thought Alex. Not with John. No, he would sit up, grin with that goofy smile that Hamilton had adored since they first met, maybe make a joke, then look at Alex with his freckled face and curly hair as his eyes lit up with laughter.

But no.

He laid still.

Agonizing sorrow took shape as a burning wail. He didn’t know when he started screaming, only that it felt like the right thing to do. It was the embodiment of suffering, and several others in the tent actually covered their ears.

But Alex didn’t care.

Not when Laurens was gone.

Alex lunged at the cot, desperate to grab John, to wake him up, _anything_ , but he was held back by the strong and slender hands of Lafayette and Mulligan’s more bullish ones. They tried to console him, but his grief was immeasurable. He barely heard them as they continued to whisper to him to _let go, don’t make this harder than it has to be, please._

He escaped their grasp and clutched at John’s wrist, hoping to feel the pulse. When it didn’t come, he laid his head on John’s chest, waiting for an sign that he was still alive, that there was hope left for him yet.

_“Alexandre..._ let go, my friend _.”_

Alex shut his eyes as his hair pooled around him onto John’s chest, tears making their way down his face. When that wasn’t enough, he pulled John’s body into a crushing embrace.

_Please, don’t let him be gone. Please, take me instead. Please._

_Please._

He was begging aloud, pleading with any deity that was out there to bring Laurens back. But none answered.

Hercules and Lafayette pulled him away from the lifeless body, wiping away their own tears. They dragged Hamilton out of the tent, his feet kicking the entire way. He spit and growled and cried and made a scene, but it didn’t matter. The only comfort he wanted to seek out was John’s warm embrace, to hear his comforting voice with just a slight Southern lilt, and to stare at those endless freckles that made constellations across his skin.

Eventually, they dragged him to his tent and carefully tossed him onto the bed, Hercules continued holding down his one shoulder, and when Alex tried to push his hand off, Laf swatted it away. 

“ _Non, mon petit lion. Tu es instable maintenant. Tu a besoin de te relaxer.”_

“But-but John...”

“I know. It’s hard,” said Hercules. “But soldiers fall. He didn’t give up without a fight.”

Alex nodded, too numb to truly comprehend what Herc was saying.

After halfheartedly pushing at Herc’s hand for another couple minutes, Alex shut down. His hand flopped at his side, right over the wound on his stomach from what seemed like so long ago. Noticing the change in the mood, Mulligan shifted from a restraining hand to a comforting one, squeezing slightly before letting go. Hamilton turned over to face the wall of the tent, staring at it until Lafayette grabbed Hercules and left Alex to his own devices, and only closed his eyes when the morning sun began shining through the next day.

* * *

Once again, Alex woke up when the sun was shining high in the sky. For a moment, he forgot all that had occurred in the past twenty-four hours, allowing himself to gaze at the entrance of his tent, waiting for Laurens—

Laurens.

Shit.

The realization that John was gone hit him like a punch to the gut. With no warning, his body gave up on him. The pressure returned around his chest, making it impossible to take in air.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

After struggling for a couple minutes to take in air, his chest cavity finally expanded enough for him to gulp in a lungful of stagnant air. When the attack was over, Alex buried himself back into the covers, giving into the urge to scream, just scream.

He knows it’s not civilized, he knows he’s being irrational, but now, he was in too much mental anguish to care.

Hamilton wanted to talk to John so badly, the yearning so bad it was making his heart physically ache. The fact that he would never talk to him again made him want to throw up.

In fact, he already felt bile in his mouth, and suddenly retched over the side of his cot. It was nasty, and he wanted to stop, but he couldn’t.

He wished everything would stop, but it wouldn’t.

From nowhere, hands—warm, familiar hands—were rubbing his back soothingly and settling him upright, whispering words of encouragement in French. He was too sluggish to make the connection that it was Lafayette, who was trying to comfort him, but he was unconsolable.

He slumped back onto his cot, shaking like a leaf in a gale. Alex curled up, digging his heels into his eyes for a moment, then switching to gripping his long hair between his fingers and pulling. 

He can’t handle this. This wasn’t worth the war. He would give up anything to see John alive, happy, not in pain.

It wasn’t fair.

* * *

Lafayette was camped outside Hamilton’s tent when he heard the retching.

He rushed in, flinging open the tent flap. Hamilton was hanging half off the cot, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the cold ground below.

“ _Oh, mon petit lion, qu’est-ce qui ce pas?”_

He dashed over, holding back his friend’s hair and rubbing his back as he continued to vomit all over the floor. It was mostly bile, as it had been a while since any of them had had adequate food. 

After he was done throwing up, he curled in on himself, groaning. Laf had never seen a more pitiful sight, except maybe when John—

No.

He couldn’t afford to think about that right now. Alex needed him.

Lafayette continued his nurturing ministrations, trying his best to make his little lion as comfortable as possible. It was hard for all of them—hell, Lafayette’s eyes were still bloodshot from crying earlier this morning—but Hamilton was obviously taking it the hardest.

A shadow loomed behind him, and he turned around to see Hercules entering the tent. “Is he okay?” he asked.

Lafayette shook his head, transferring Alex’s shivering body onto his lap. He was unresponsive, eyes unseeing.

“Anything I can do?”  


“Stay with me, _s’il vous plaît._ I do not think take care of him on my own.”

Hercules nodded and pulled up a stool, taking a seat beside the cot where the Marquis and Hamilton were seated on the bed, and tried to talk. He gave up after a few failed attempts, and the two just sat in silence for a while

* * *

Alex eventually must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew he was awoken by soft voices in the background and a soothing hand in his hair.

He sat up, groggy, tying his hair back with a tie. Looking at his desk, he noticed all the unfinished work, and tears sprang into his eyes when he remembered what had happened. The two people—Lafayette and Mulligan—stopped talking and gave him some space. 

“Are you alright, Hamilton?” Hercules asked.

And for once in his life, Alex was speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed! I live for your responses!


	9. Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really short chapter, but I hope you guys like it! Sorry it isn't longer.

After a couple days and many condolences, even one from Washington himself, they finally buried John. It was a small ceremony in which hardly anyone spoke. Even Alex, never one to shut his mouth, didn’t say a word.

All he felt was numbness.

Another week went by, Hamilton becoming more and more withdrawn each passing day. He barely ate, he didn’t sleep, and had done nothing but stare blankly at John Laurens’ old bed.

Lafayette kept an eye on him, but couldn’t stop Alex from his path of self-destruction through neglect. He hadn’t seen Alex close his eyes in days, nor had his charge eaten in that time. Even the minuscule assignments that Washington gave him were too daunting. Alex just lacked the drive to finish them. He didn’t have the drive to do anything but stare blankly at Laurens’ neatly folded belongings that sat on top of his cot.

Finally, after a week and a half, Hamilton picked up a pen at three in the morning, took a deep breath, and began to write. It was rusty, at first, but grew stronger as the hours ticked by.

* * *

  _My dearest Laurens,_

_You have finally left the company of God’s good earth. I know you didn’t go without a fight, but it didn’t matter in the end. I failed you, John. I have failed you more than anyone in my entire life. It has left me feeling hopeless, and I now I know I will never truly be happy again._

_I am scaring my friends with my behaviour, but I cannot help it. You have left behind a hole in my heart that can never be filled. Nothing matters now that you are gone._

_Still, it is unfair that you should leave and I should linger here on this hellish scape. The war is almost won, John; I can feel it. I am saddened that you will not be here to share the victory with me._

_I understand that it is pointless to complain about things we cannot control. But everyone I’ve ever loved has been hurt, left me, or died. I had hoped you would last. Maybe I am just a harbinger of misfortune, leaving destruction in my wake. I am sorry I put you through that._

_What on earth have I done to deserve this?_

_And what if everything has been my fault?_

_I could have prevented my father from leaving me alone in a three-person family to fend for ourselves. If I had been a better son, maybe he wouldn’t have left._

_If I had realized it wasn’t a regular run-of-the-mill fever, maybe I could’ve saved my mother._

_If I had noticed my own cousin acting strangely, I could’ve prevented Peter from taking his own life._

_And if I hadn’t so foolishly stopped covering your back, maybe you would still be here, standing over my shoulder, telling me to stop working too hard and take a much-needed respite._

_You have never been in the wrong, my dear Laurens. It was I who has made all the mistakes. I’m so sorry it cost you this dearly._

_The truth is, you and I had a connection. It was more than friendship, that I’m sure of. I know you felt it too. Even though I love my dearest Eliza, she is not the only one with a special place in my heart._

* * *

 Alexander paused, reading over what he wrote so far. If anyone found it, he would surely be hanged.

But that didn’t matter.

Not anymore.

Lastly, he wrote of his desire to do one thing. One thing he had never been able to do before. 

He wished for the ability to stop. To stop everything.

Because without John, life was hardly worth living. 

Thinking back to John’s final words, his hasty promise not to follow him into the afterlife, yet he wanted nothing more than to see his dearest Laurens alive and happy one last time.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Hamilton put his quill back in the ink bottle. It was a relief to get the words out of his head that had been spinning there for days. A sense of tranquility settled over him, along with a distinct determination.

“Farewell, John Laurens,” he said quietly to himself. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there ya go! My longest fic I've ever written! I hope y'all enjoyed it. it was certainly a journey to write, and I am eternally grateful for your responses that helped me get through it. Thank you so much!

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is [lil-lycanthropy](http://lil-lycanthropy.tumblr.com/)


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